


Breakfast

by Spayne



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spayne/pseuds/Spayne
Summary: A story about embracing your worst expectations
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 33
Kudos: 331





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this turned out a bit darker than I thought it would. Or is it still fluff? Dark fluff? Is that a thing? I wanted to write something as Villenelle and that’s just the direction it went.

This. This right now, it is the worst moment of your life. That’s quite a statement considering a lot of shitty things have happened to you.

The father who doted on you when sober, but felt otherwise after a drink or two or ten. The mother who hated you for what little tenderness he did show you. The moment you realised that she never intended to come back for you. That was particularly shit. Decades where your skin was more familiar to you bruised rather than unharmed. The betrayal of the first woman you ever loved. Pretty much everything that happened in that piece of shit prison. The time you accidentally dyed your hair green before you found your excellent wig maker in Florence. A log to the face from a man you trusted. A knife to the stomach from a woman you turned out to love. 

Actually. Scrap that. Without the knife there would be no scar. Without the scar there would have been nothing for her fingers to dig into whilst her eyes bore into yours and her tongue touched you for the first time.   


So, on balance the stabbing doesn’t make the list.  All the time’s she treated you like you’re something she stepped in, they do. Rome does. All this Keeper bullshit. Your mother being everything you expected. All of those things make the list. But of all that, this is the worst.

You reach over to pick up your phone and check the time. 6:43. She’ll wake soon. Surely. You’ve been awake for an hour. As soon as she wakes it will start all over again. You’ve been dancing together long enough for you to know the steps. She comes close, draws you in, then at the crucial moment she’ll step back. You won’t be surprised but you’ll be disappointed all the same and hate yourself for it.

This time will be worst of all. 

You aren’t sure what happened to bring her to you, why tonight she decided to give in to herself. You didn’t ask. When she looked at you so sweetly, her hands so gentle on your face you didn’t even think to ask why.

Stupid, you think now. Questions then could have prevented this shitty situation now; where everything you wanted has been handed to you and now you lie here waiting patiently for it to be snatched away. 

You consider waking her, hastening the inevitable, but a pathetic part of you can’t face it. You long for, and dread, meeting her eyes again.

She had never done it before, any of it, that was plain. Whilst there was something to be desired in terms of skill and finesse, to watch her discover her enjoyment of your body for the first time left you without words. 

It had been.....God. You’ve never had sex like it. Before tonight you have certainly come more times and probably harder, although being entirely fair there was one last night that was definitely up there. But no one has ever looked at you with such .....reverence. Perhaps that’s the word. You would not have expected it, from her in particular. 

You imagined teeth biting hard enough to mark and nails scraping down your skin. An effort to destroy you as well as mark you as hers forever, or at least until she dropped you again. As far as destroying you goes, her whispered words of encouragement and praise were far more effective. 

The hand in your hair as you kissed up her thigh. The kiss to your temple when you came against her fingers. The hand gripping yours just before you fell asleep.

The love was the worse part. That had been ever present in all the ways she touched you, all the ways you touched her. You know she loves you, regardless of what she said before. She does love you, but she hates herself for it. The unfortunate byproduct of all that self loathing is that when she punishes herself, she punishes you too. 

You wonder if she ever thought about that. If she ever considered that when she forces herself to be distant, it is you who feels that pain right along with her. You imagine not. She can be awfully myopic this cruel and imperfect love of your life. 

You wonder if you are the love of her life. Probably. You’re both the best and worst thing to happen to each other.

Despite all that,everything from last night is this perfect shining moment that burns in the abject darkness of the rest of your life. It is something that will be mutilated to the point of being unrecognisable when she wakes. You hate her for that. As usual you hate her even as you love her. 

Perhaps it’s all the same anyway.

A thought trickles into your consciousness. There is a way to keep this moment. To keep it forever preserved in time. To stop her from taking it from you. To take control of this situation, to end thisexcruciating wait.

You turn on your side. She’s laying on her back. Her incredible hair is everywhere. You reach out to pick up a curl and rub it between your thumb and finger. 

You wonder what her expression would be. Certainly different from when she allowed your hand to settle on her throat last night. No blind trust and such fucking lust staring back at you, not if she woke to find your hand pressing down this morning. 

Fear. Panic. Betrayal. Hatred. Probably a cycle of all that. You feel something familiar creep over you. It would take a long time, you know that. But you could do it, you have done it before.   


She deserves to see your face so you’d have to sit above her. You consider the logistics. Time slows in that way it always does just before. She said once she wanted to know what you felt when you killed someone, you wonder if she’ll get her answer if your eyes are the last she stares into.

You shift again. Move closer. Reach out an arm. 

Then something snaps in you. 

You collapse onto your back. You press your arm over your eyes. You can’t breath, you can’t do anything.   


You want to do it. You want to be the monster that know you can be, that you have been. You want to spare yourself the gutting pain that is sure to follow. Her casual dismissal and a return to the cold. But you can’t do it. 

There is something stopping you. Not something good. Something selfish. Something that makes you think what if. What if this is the time it’s different? What if she wakes and kisses you and it’s different? What if by killing her you bury any chance of more right along with her?

You hate yourself in this moment. So weak and pathetic. You feel tears track down the side of your face. 

“Hey..”

You quickly jerk your arm away from your eyes and turn to face her. She’s turned toward you now, her cheek against her palm on the pillow. She reaches out to trace the tears. To rub them into your skin. You try to turn away. She stops you with gentle hands.

“You’re ok. Just breath.”

You do as she says. You stare at the ceiling.

After a time your breathing slows. You pull together every bit of courage to turn to face her.

There are a thousand questions brimming in her, you can feel it. You prepare for the worst. At least the wait is over you suppose.

She smiles softly, pushes some hair away from your face and asks; “What did you want to do for breakfast?”


	2. Itch. Scratched.

She’s asleep. Finally.

You stare at the ceiling and work exceptionally hard to keep your mind blank. As blank as it can be after...that.

Jesus.

This isn’t what you came here for, and that’s not even a lie. Really. You came here and hoped to...scratch the itch. 

Alright, that’s a gross way of putting it but it is what it is. 

It’s been years now of her forever being just beyond touching distance. 

It’s taken some time to get to this point. This point where you can acknowledge that you want her. You still aren’t sure you can adequately articulate why. But you can admit now that you do want her. That is progress. 

There have been opportunities, of course, but you’ve never been in the right place to take them. You couldn’t have kissed her on the bed in Paris, not when she still so clearly underestimated you. Not in your kitchen, when you had to keep hold of the reigns so tightly with the eyes of MI5 burning into your skin. Not in Rome, not after she showed her hand, showed that she still thought of you as a chess piece to be moved round the board at her whim. To have given in before would have given her all the control, all of the power.

That has always been the problem, you wanted to meet her as an equal, not an obsessed fan, or a passing interest waiting ready to be shed like summer skin. You just never found the right way, the right words, to take what you want in exactly the way that you want it. And this, she, you correct yourself, she is something too important to waste by having her in a way that isn’t exactly right.

But tonight, you decided to just fuck all of that drama and hand wringing and just do what you had been so desperate for.

She’ll be leaving the country soon, you reasoned. It wouldn’t need to...be a thing, you told yourself. This could be your last opportunity.There is an expression; to let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

If it was really the end then who holds the reigns doesn’t matter anymore. She’s leaving anyway, so it’s not like she’d be leaving you specifically.

So that all seemed...fine. Sort of. At least it was enough of an excuse to knock on the door to a hotel room tonight.

So yes, this was about scratching an itch, but then she opened the door and it wasn’t. 

Fuck. You’ve fucked this up. Like, really really fucked it up. 

You came here with a game plan. A good one. Surprise her, take control, get her on the bed, get her out of her clothes, get a demonstration of what she likes, rinse and repeat. A good solid plan. You’d be sexy, aloof, all those cool things that people are. That she is sometimes. 

But then none of that seemed to happen. You didn’t want to push her down on the bed once the door opened. You wanted to touch her face, softly. You wanted slow deep kisses not harsh biting teeth. You wanted to soak, to drown, in every part of this experience, rather than bash through it to reach the end, to tick a box, to scratch an itch.

And yeah it had been....hot. It had been really fucking hot. She’s all endless legs and long neck, and those tits? Jesus. 

Even when it was awkward and new and a bit daunting she’d been there to push you forward, and it had all felt so fucking good.

She was soft and slow and, with the exception of some gentle teasing after a particularly undignified noise you made, not a total asshole about it all. 

You go cold. Simpering. That’s what you must have looked like, for her to treat you with such softness. How boring you must have been. How fucking mortifying. 

You imagine the sort of sex she normally has, champagne drenched orgies with french models. Nothing of the moments tonight with you staring into her eyes, your fingers gently tucking hair behind her ear, the words so nearly on the tip of your tongue.

You notice your fingers are still laced with hers and you drop them as though burnt. 

She stirs. 

Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.

She doesn’t.

You stare at the ceiling. 

Ok. New morning, new game plan. You’ll sleep here, you decide. To sneak out now is too much like running away. Too cowardly. So you’ll wake up, put your clothes on, wish her well and go. 

That will be fine. 

Itch. Scratched.

You can leave with some dignity. Maybe she’d remember that rather than your whispered pleas that she just keep fucking you, that finally she let you come. 

Maybe.

You close your eyes and will the morning to come so you can just get on with it. Perhaps that works because the next moment you are conscious of, you feel her jerk next to you and you open your eyes and turn your head. 

She’s on her back with an arm over her face. She’s awake and you see tears fall down her cheeks. Your chest feels increasingly like someone is sitting on it. 

“Hey...” 

She swiftly turns to you and she looks....human. You reach out to run the pad of your finger over the tear tracks on her skin. Wet, you note. Human, again. She tries to turn away but you stop her.

“You’re ok. Just breath”   
  


She does.

Then it’s happening again. The plan is getting away from you. You don’t want to be cool and aloof, and wish her well. You want to know why she was crying. You want to lean over and kiss along her cheeks, to trace the tear tracks to the corner of her eyes. You want to stroke her hair and whisper something sweet in her ear. Something to make her smile. Jesus.

You should say something cruel now to break this moment. You should do anything at all to escape this cloying sentimentality. 

She turns to you looking embarrassed, or nervous maybe, like she wants reassurance.

This is it, you realise. Your opportunity to take back control. To erase the weakness from last night.

  
Do it.

Do it now.

Then suddenly your hand is moving toward her face to swipe away a stray hair.  


You open your mouth to speak;

“What did you want to do for breakfast?”


End file.
